


until you set your old heart free

by QueenWithABeeThrone



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: (one was planned anyway), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Established Relationship, Marriage Proposal, Other, Resurrection, Reunion, Temporary Character Death, author sobbed over this four times send help
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 14:39:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16976457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenWithABeeThrone/pseuds/QueenWithABeeThrone
Summary: How long does it take to mourn someone? The truth is it varies. Sometimes it only takes weeks, sometimes months, sometimes years. It depends on the person, really.Caleb has been mourning a year and a day, when the doorbell rings.or: Molly comes home, a year and a day late.





	until you set your old heart free

**Author's Note:**

> title from The Hellos’ “Hello My Old Heart”.

Mollymauk Tealeaf comes back from the dead in the early hours of a September morning, at 3:54 AM. Caleb knows this because he checked the time on the clock over the doorway to their (his) bedroom, and it takes three minutes to head down the stairs and to their (his) door.

How long does it take to mourn someone? The truth is it varies. Sometimes it only takes weeks, sometimes months, sometimes years. It depends on the person, really.

Caleb has been mourning a year and a day, when the doorbell rings. He slips on his slippers and heads down the stairs, wondering who would be buzzing at their ( _his_ ) doorbell at almost 4 AM. Jester, perhaps, wanting to keep him company. Beau, drunk as she always gets on occasions like this, days that had been important to Mollymauk. Nott, not wanting him to be alone.

He opens the door.

Molly stands there, as beautiful as ever, tattoos curling up the side of his face, jewelry dangling from his horns and ears.

For a moment Caleb just stares at him, trying to see past the illusion. And this must be an illusion, a dirty trick being played on his sleep-deprived mind. What would Mollymauk be doing here, alive, on their—fuck, no, on _his_ doorstep? For fuck’s sake, they’d _had a funeral_ for him.

He’s almost about to slam the door on this hallucination when Molly says, in a hoarse, panicked croak, “Caleb?”

Molly would never sound so scared, in Caleb’s wildest dreams. He’d always seemed so bright and wild and loud, so assured of anything, that Caleb had let the moments of fear and insecurity fade away. He didn’t want to remember Molly afraid. He’d wondered if he’d died scared, or if it had all happened too fast for it all to really register. Then he’d shoved that thought away in a little box, because it didn’t matter how Molly had died, just that he _did_.

But he stands there now, scared and cold out in the autumn air, and Caleb opens his door and says, “Well, come in, then.”

\--

Molly devours the pancakes that Caleb makes in a hurry like he hasn’t eaten in months. He even licks the plate clean, a rarity with someone so picky as him, and Caleb finds himself watching Molly as he goes, recommitting every detail of his face, of his tattoos, of his body to memory again. He doesn’t know if he can touch him. He doesn’t think he should. Maybe this is a hallucination, a ghost that will not stay for long.

Molly downs the glass of orange juice that had been scavenged from the fridge, then looks over at Caleb, who’s seated across from him at their ( _their_ ) cramped kitchen table. He’s paler now, his lavender skin less colorful than it had been before, but it’s only the paleness of someone who hasn’t seen much sun in a long while. “You have no idea,” he says, voice sounding strangely ravaged, “how good it is to see you.”

“You have no idea how strange it is to see you,” says Caleb. “I thought—I thought you were _dead_.”

“I think I was,” says Molly. “But someone brought me back. _Dragged_ me back, actually.” He gestures down to his clothes—they’re not his funeral clothes, Caleb quickly realizes, because Molly had stipulated in his will that he wanted his funeral clothes to be as garishly colorful as possible. These clothes are black, like fresh asphalt roads, slick from rain. “Do you—Do you remember when I told you about not knowing where these scars came from?”

“ _Ja,_ why?”

“I might have some idea now,” says Molly. “These clothes apparently used to belong to the previous bastard in charge of this body. The cleric wanted him back and got me, and she was very displeased when she found out.” He chews on his lower lip and says, lowly, “For a while I thought—I don’t know, I thought maybe I had dreamed all this.” He gestures to Caleb, to their small house, to the empty plate, everything. “I remembered stuff he did. But—do you know something?”

“What?” Caleb says.

“I saw someone who was playing around with a cat one day, big orange tabby with stripes and a notched ear,” says Molly, “and I thought, _Caleb would love that cat._ And then I knew you.” His breath comes out slow, and he turns his head towards Caleb, impossibly beautiful and alive. “And you weren’t his, you never even met him. You’re _mine_. Everything that I remember about you, about us, that’s mine. You were the first thing that I could be sure of.”

“So you came here,” says Caleb, connecting the dots.

“It took a while,” says Molly. “A few times I wasn’t all that sure, but you know me, I’ve never been one to let that stop me.”

Caleb laughs, a little, something stinging at the corners of his eyes. “ _Ja_ , you have never liked being stopped for anything,” he says. “You ran a red light once because Jester had called you sobbing, and you could never stand to hear her sad.”

“I bought her a box full of powdered donuts to cheer her up,” says Molly. “Is she okay? I didn’t—I didn’t want to go.”

“I know,” says Caleb, reaching out now to take Molly’s hand in his. He half-expects it to pass through, still, is somewhat certain that the second he touches him Molly will disappear into dust and ashes. Instead, his hand meets warm and calloused flesh, Molly’s pulse beating gently when he scoots closer to rub his thumb over Molly’s wrist.

If this is a dream, he never wants to wake up. If this is real, he doesn’t want to go back to sleep.

Molly rubs his thumb over his ring finger. “I’m almost scared to ask,” he says, “but—I had something in a small box, in my closet. It was going to be a surprise, but then—”

“I found it,” says Caleb, “cleaning your closet out.” The ring had been sitting in a velvet box, a simple diamond embedded in a silver ring, perfect for his finger. Finding it there had been when he’d finally realized that Molly wasn’t coming home—he’d floated through the morgue, the funeral, everything, but the ring in a box had been the needle that popped the balloon holding him up above the clouds.

Molly wouldn’t have let him find that damn ring, if he could have, not before he could take a knee and ask. The fact that he had meant Molly wasn’t there to stop him. Wasn’t there to do anything anymore, and wouldn’t be again. That knowledge had stabbed him through the heart, as sure and cold as one of Nott’s crossbow bolts.

But Molly is here now. Molly is here, and bringing Caleb’s hand up to kiss his knuckles with a tenderness Caleb doesn’t always think he deserves. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I had it all planned out. I was gonna get a private table reserved at that fancy Zemnian place you like, have a live band playing, have it delivered to you in a glass of white wine.”

“Well,” says Caleb, weakly, playing out how the scenario would’ve gone, how he’d kiss Molly for all his effort and how _yes_ of course he would marry him, “it may have been best that you didn’t. White wine does not agree with me.”

Molly laughs, a little hoarsely. “I’m flexible, I would’ve adjusted for that,” he says. “I missed you, Caleb. So _fucking_ much.”

“I missed you as well, Mollymauk,” says Caleb, and he leans in close to press a kiss to Molly’s hairline, like a benediction, a blessing that he isn’t fit to give. He gives it anyway, and hopes it’s enough. “Come to bed with me?”

“I need a shower first,” says Molly, and he looks down at the black clothes he’s wearing with his lips pursed in distaste, “and I need out of these clothes immediately.” He pauses, then adds, “And—I don’t. I think we can ravish each other another night, I just need—”

He falters, and seems almost to hunch in on himself, looking up at Caleb with pleading red eyes.

Caleb nods, because he knows what that plea is. Molly’s never liked being alone. “Time for that later,” he says, because he can now, because they have time. “But I—I do not want to be alone right now, either.”

“Shower and clothes first, love,” says Molly, clasping his hands around Caleb’s. “Then you can take me to bed.”

\--

The only thing of Molly’s left in their closet is his outrageously garish coat. Caleb takes that down from the box it’s been in for months, blowing off the dust from the top and taking it out, shaking off the dust that’s built up on it.

“I gave everything else away to charity, as you asked,” he says, handing the coat to Molly, who’s toweling off his hair now. He’s bare, having stripped off every bit of clothing that had been on him the second he’d stepped into the bathroom, and Caleb makes a note to himself to either donate those or burn them. “The clothes that Beau, Yasha and Jester didn’t claim, anyway. You could ask for some of them back, the rest have probably been cannibalized by now—I saw Beau with a hairtie made from your favorite scarf, last week.”

“I _knew_ she had designs on that scarf,” says Molly, with no real heat in his voice. He holds the colorful bundle close to his chest. “Damn it, I’m never going to see it again. Hope she’s happy.”

“She wasn’t,” says Caleb, searching through his sweaters for something that might fit Molly. Most of them are oversized and baggy, and made of cheap cotton or wool, none of the soft and expensive fabrics Molly favored. “She missed you, _Schatz_ , we all did.”

Molly chews on his lower lip, and sighs, flopping onto the bed, still holding his coat like it’s a lifeline. And Caleb supposes it may very well be. “It was an accident,” he says, at last. “A stupid accident.” He huffs out a mirthless laugh. “You were right, the roads were slick and I should’ve just stayed with Fjord. But I knew the road, and I figured it was worth a shot.”

_Was it quick? Was it painless?_

Caleb doesn’t ask. Instead he just pulls out the softest sweater he has, the one that smells vaguely of Frumpkin, who’s with Beau at the moment. Then he grabs a baggy pair of pajamas as well, and dumps both into Molly’s lap.

“Sorry,” says Molly. “Just—wanted to make sure Beau was all right.”

“Don’t,” says Caleb. “It was an accident, like you said, it is not on you, it is not on anyone.” Not Molly, not Beau. Just the road and the rain. He bends down to wrap his arms around Molly, and after a moment he feels Molly’s arms wrapping around him as well, tugging him fully down to his knees to hold him close to his chest. Three years ago he would’ve resisted, a year and eight months ago ago they would’ve kissed like teenagers and fallen into bed laughing, unable to stop touching each other.

Now he just holds Molly close, scared to let him go, scared to see him fade away. So long as he’s holding him, he can assure himself he’s there, he’s safe and alive.

Molly doesn’t try to let go of him either. His body pressed to Caleb’s is a brand, his hands clinging to the back of Caleb’s ratty university shirt like fire pressing to his back. None of it is painful, though, not the way Caleb knows fire could be.

“You came back, that is what matters to me,” he says, stroking down Molly’s bare back. He can see Molly’s tail, twitching agitatedly, starting to still. “Not how you left, only that you came back, only that you’re staying. You—You are staying, yes?” he asks, breaking away suddenly, fear rising in the back of his throat.

“You couldn’t tear me away from here for anything,” Molly says. “I’m staying, Caleb. I’m staying. As long as you will let me, I’m fucking staying.”

“ _Gut,_ ” says Caleb. “Good. I want you to stay for good.” His hands come up to frame Molly’s face, stroke his thumbs over Molly’s cheekbones. “Can I kiss you, Mr. Mollymauk?”

“C’mere, then, Mr. Caleb,” Molly breathes, and Caleb closes the distance between them to seal his lips over Molly’s.

\--

They do not get much further than kissing. Caleb didn’t expect things to go any further than that, tonight, and he is fine with that. He is glad enough for Molly’s presence in his life again, for Molly walking around in his sweater and pajama pants. This is enough, for him. Everything else is a bonus.

They fold the black clothes up and shove them unceremoniously into a plastic bag. Tomorrow afternoon, Caleb will dump it in a charity bin, because it will serve someone else better than it could ever serve either of them. Tonight, he climbs into bed beside Molly, and kisses his tattooed cheek, and throws an arm over his torso.

“We’ll tell the others tomorrow,” Molly murmurs.

“They will want to hear you’ve come back,” Caleb agrees, “and they’ll want to introduce Caduceus to you. You’ll like him, he makes some very good tea. Although he can be a bit odd at times.”

“Sweetheart, you’re telling _me_ ,” says Molly, with a laugh that reverberates in Caleb’s chest. He hadn’t thought he could hear that laugh again, hadn’t realized how integral it had become to his life until it was gone.

Caleb chuckles as well, and presses a kiss to the top of Molly’s head. Molly purrs under the kiss, tucking his head in under Caleb’s chin. Caleb reaches up and combs lightly through Molly’s plum-dark hair with his fingers, permanently a little blackened at the tips from his fire magic.

He doesn’t close his eyes, although Molly does. After a heartbeat, Caleb lets out a breath.

“Yes,” he says, thinking of the diamond ring, still sitting in a little velvet box in his (their) bedroom drawers. “I would’ve said yes.”

Molly raises his head up, slightly. “Oh,” he breathes, and then moves closer. His lips press against Caleb’s, and for a moment, everything narrows down to his body against Caleb’s, his warmth, the tenderness of his hands as they come up to frame Caleb’s face. “White wine and all?” he asks, after they break away.

“White wine and all,” Caleb promises, and kisses him again, mouths _yes, yes, yes_ into his mouth and his neck and his shoulders.

He doesn’t get any further down, but there is no need to hurry. They have time.

\--

Molly is still there the next day, and pecks him on the cheek in the kitchen. “ _Guten Morgen,_ love,” he says.

Caleb laughs, and kisses him back. “Your accent is still terrible,” he says, flipping over an omelette. He adds, in Irish Gaelic, “ _Maidin mhaith._ ”

“Like yours in Gaelic isn’t,” Molly shoots back, grabbing a plate. His tail entwines briefly with Caleb’s ankle, before it slips out and away just as fast. “You’re lucky I love you despite your shite accent.”

“You’re luckier than I am, considering I love you so much that I’m putting up with this again,” Caleb says.

“Mm, yeah, luckiest tiefling alive,” says Molly, with a grin.

It’s a grin that Caleb wouldn’t mind waking up to, every day, for the rest of his life. It’s a life he wouldn’t mind waking up in, every day, for as long as it lasts.

He flips the omelette over onto a plate, cuts it in half, and brings it to the dining table. Molly’s tail entwines with his ankle once more, and Caleb sees the spark of life and mischief in his red, red eyes. In the sunlight, he looks like something radiant, almost holy, and yet at the same time like something real and true, and his hand slips into Caleb’s.

He remembers: Yes. This is real. This is true.

And together, Caleb Widogast and Mollymauk Tealeaf start the first day of the rest of their lives.


End file.
